


Magnetic

by CSIGurlie07



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 07:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14183730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CSIGurlie07/pseuds/CSIGurlie07
Summary: Helen Magnus allows herself to engage in a night of frivolity. Her past catches up with her when an unexpected guest arrives. Past Helen/John, with current Helen/Nikola undertones. Rated Teen for language and violent intent in later chapters.[transferred from FFnet; orig. published 9/9/12]





	1. Chapter 1

How had she managed to let herself get talked into this?

The West Coast King and Queen's Ball—a sorry excuse for wistful imaginarians to play Victorian for a night. It boasted a meal served in the proper style, with all participants expected to follow the proper etiquette of the time. Then, afterwards, a dance would be held, where any could participate. None of it appealed her, but Will had signed himself and his girlfriend up for it.

To add insult to injury, he'd somehow ended up with two additional tickets, which had  _ somehow _ wound up in Nikola's hands.

The man had refused to let her alone about it until she'd agreed to accompany him. It had taken more than month, but Nikola was nothing if not persistent, and she hadn't the strength to fend him off forever. So all four of them were now readying themselves for a nonsensical affair.

Helen stared at her reflection in the full length mirror before her, and all she could think was that she was looking at a ghost. The dress was old, pulled from the pits of her deepest closet, and the cloth scratched against her skin in ways it never had before. It seemed she had grown more accustomed to today's softer materials.

It was heavier too, than she remembered. Bustles and petticoats and shifts and underskirts all took their toll, weighing her down with the physical oppression of a time notoriously less feminine. Already, the shoes on her feet were beginning to pinch—she had not missed the use of buttonhooks either. The tediousness of the matter had been gladly abandoned decades ago, and returning to it, even for a night, was less than thrilling.

Oh, and that waist—it had been just as long since she'd seen that. She was re-learning how to breathe as well, since the corset giving her that narrow waist was compressing her ribcage to the point of discomfort. As it should be; her governess had once told her that if it wasn't, then she wasn't wearing it properly.

On a whim, and with the marvels of modern dyes, she'd even colored her hair. Temporarily, of course—she had no desire to return to the past beyond this particular event. But for tonight, and tonight only, she looked nearly as she had over a century ago. Blonde tresses curled and piled on her head, a rich satin gown, and brocade Italian boots she'd purchased so long ago…

Helen hadn't seen this woman in a very long time.

"Oh, my…"

The voice from behind alerted her to Abby's return from the washroom. The younger girl was similarly done up, courtesy of Helen's expertise. At Will's behest, the young couple had learned the finer points of the culture from Magnus. And then, as she'd warmed to the idea, Helen had sent Will off to learn from Nikola while Abby remained with her.

The dress the agent now wore was her own, a relatively accurate rendering purchased from an online costume shop, but the nuances were Helen's own touch. Abby's hair was knotted at the back of her head, trailed by three solid, corkscrew curls—perfect for the texture of her hair. A touch of rouge here, a splash of fragrance there, and the girl was ready for her night in the ages.

But Agent Corrigan was now staring slack-jawed at Helen, giving her the sinking suspicion that the young lady had never suspected this woman was lurking beneath the surface.

"Dr. Magnus," Abby exhaled, her voice breathless with awe, "you look… amazing."

Helen offered a thin smile, more polite than anything else; she wasn't comfortable in the guise of a woman she'd let fade over the decades. "Thank you, Miss Corrigan," she returned, letting her voice soften as she put a bit more of an accent on her words, tightening the looseness she's adopted over the years. It seemed her wardrobe was bringing back some well-learned habits. "You're looking quite proper yourself."

Abby's brow furrowed. "Dr. Magnus, please, it's Abby. I think we know each other well enough by now."

"Not tonight you're not," Helen countered with a smile, more honest this time. "Tonight you're Miss Abigail Corrigan, to be accompanied by Mister William Zimmerman."

Comprehension settled over Abby quickly, and she laughed off her confusion. "Right, of course, I'm sorry."

Helen's lone stipulation for the entire affair was that it not be taken in jest. They would pay proper homage to the time period, or they would not participate at all. Will and Abby had both agreed wholeheartedly. In fact, Will had assured her that  _ was _ the intent of the evening. So that those attending may actually believe that they were transported back in time.

It was a sentiment Helen wasn't sure she appreciated. Why allow yourself to be swept away by the past, when the present was enough of its own burden? But then, her perspective was somewhat skewed, wasn't it?

"Well, anyway," Abby continued, "that dress is absolutely stunning. It's gorgeous."

"Oh, this old thing?" Helen hemmed, giving her eyes a brief roll. She smiled, which Abby returned, but Helen had the sinking suspicion that she didn't truly appreciate the humor of the brush off. However much Will might have told her about the Sanctuary, it was doubtful he'd explained the complicated mystery that was her age.

Her life.

_ Dear Lord, she felt old _ .

"So," she said, changing the subject, "how does it feel?"

Abby beamed. "I feel  _ amazing _ . Like I'm in a fairytale."

_ So old _ .

"Are you ready to go, Dr. Magnus? The car service should be arriving soon." The notion of driving themselves had been shot down instantly. Will had been all for it, but Nikola had quickly informed him that Victorian dress did  _ not _ accommodate for driving oneself anywhere.

"You go on ahead," Helen prompted. "I'll be along shortly. I have a few last things to take care of here."

But once Abby disappeared, Helen simply turned back to the mirror. Her heart was fluttering in her chest, and it wasn't from the constriction of the corset. She was nervous—she shouldn't be. She'd done this before, after all. Lived it, breathed it,  _ was _ it for so many years.

Perhaps it was the dissociation that was unsettling her.

She'd always thought time was fluid, that her life was as well. But perhaps, over the years her life had stuttered somewhere along the line. It was as though there was a break between the woman that was and the woman that is. The problem was, she didn't know when the break had occurred.

With a sigh, she twitched her shoulders, shucking the concern off.

Tonight, she was Miss Helen Magnus once more.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Helen gasped, swallowing a yelp of pain as Bessie gave a final sharp tug on the laces of the corset. _

_ "If it isn't uncomfortable, you aren't wearing it properly, Miss." Bessie's voice was warm with mirth. Her maid was far too observant, seeming to hear the displeasure of Helen's thoughts. _

_ "I'd like to see you wear it properly," Helen retorted, stepping away from the bedpost. The rich hardwood was sturdy, and had weathered many such evenings in the years since she'd been presented to society. It was as stolid a presence as Bessie, who had easily become a friend and confidante in the years since she'd been hired on as Helen's governess. When Helen had outgrown the need for a governess, the woman had remained as an attendant. _

_ Bessie harrumphed, busying herself with gathering the material of Helen's gown for the evening. It was a dusty rose, and with another maid's help, it would find its way over Helen's head and around the bustle and hoops at her hips. Once settled, it would proudly display small rosettes along the lines of the bodices, which would match the buds threaded into her hair. Helen was certain she was too old for such fashions, but Bessie would have none of it. _

_ Sarah, the second poor girl drafted into service this evening, helped get the monstrosity on Helen, and then made the last finishing touches to Helen's hair and face. Looking into the mirror to inspect the finished presentation, Helen was faced with a woman she barely recognized. It was only little changes—a touch of kohl, a dash of rouge—but all together they disguised Helen into a gentle lady. It was a mask, to hide the rebellious spirit within her. _

_ "I'll wait for you in the foyer, Miss Helen," Bessie declared, shooing Sarah along with her. _

_ Helen looked up, forcing a smile. "Thank you, Bessie." _

_ The door closed behind the two women, leaving Helen alone with the stranger in the mirror. She turned back to look herself in the eye. An objective eye assured her that the effect was not unpleasant, but a shadow of truth darkened her spirits. The effort was for naught, surely. She was far past the age for courtship. _

_ Helen took a deep breath, made shallow by the ribs of bone constricting her waist, and released it in a huff. She was being ridiculous. This evening wasn't about finding a suitor. One needn't have an escort to be sociable. _

_ Slipping on her lace gloves, Helen gathered her handbag and her wits. The activity distracted her, but failed to banish the unsettlement in the pit of her stomach. Leaving her chambers, she paused at the top of the stairs. She heard Bessie putting on her own cloak; the elder woman would be acting as Helen's chaperone, in the absence of a man as her escort. _

_ Helen closed her eyes, and rested her hand atop the banister. Phalanges _ **_._ ** _ The word sprang into her mind, and she grasped it tightly. Metacarpals. By the time she arrived at the party, she should have worked her way through the bones of her wrist, and the entire 206 bones of the human bodies. Some of the primary muscle groups as well, if necessary. _

_ Trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate. _

_ Her booted foot touched the first step… _

Will paced the foyer anxiously. They were going to be late. Abby had just joined them—looking amazing. Poufy skirts and lace-trimmed sleeves transformed her completely. Little black boots, fingerless lace gloves… She looked almost like a porcelain doll. She seemed content to wait though, and there was an expectant, self-satisfied twinkle in her eye, as if she knew something he didn't. Nikola was at ease. Completely. Aloof, almost.

"Relax, young grasshopper," the scientist urged. Beyond the infuriating grin, there was nothing but amusement. Surprisingly, he lacked the usual irritating snark. It was unsettling.

"We're going to be late," Will pointed out.

"Ah, but a lady is never late," Tesla returned.

Will blinked. "Is this a 19th Century thing? That the women take their time while we lesser mortals bide ours?"

Tesla grinned. "You're young… and you mustn't speak of mortals until you meet the goddesses."

"Yeah, well, I would love to, but—"

" _ Oh _ —"

Abby's gasp of excitement caught Will's attention, and when he turned to her, he saw her gaze locked to the top of the stair. His eyes followed her line of sight, and froze when he saw Magnus descending the stair.

_ Holy _ … He glanced at Tesla, but was shocked to find the man uncharacteristically still. His eyes were wide, lips parted, stunned by the vision presented to him.

White gloves glided ethereally along the banister, the cloth sheathing her arms past the elbow. Her steps were light, delicate in slender boots that peeked from beneath full skirts. Her dress sparkled in the low light of the foyer, a beaded overdress catching both the light and the eye. Beneath was a satin gown, the color of red wine. It was intoxicating.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Will noted the blonde tresses whose tendrils framed either side of her face, but his attention remained focused on the demure twist of Magnus' lips, soft and coy. A surge of electricity flooded his veins, and only Abby's hand on his arm kept him steady.

The touch brought him back to himself, and this time when he looked at Tesla, the shock had morphed into a cheeky grin.

"You spoke of goddesses, did you not?" Nikola delivered, his eyes not leaving Magnus. "I do believe someone delivered."

Will tried to think of a retort, but as Magnus neared the bottom of the stairs, Tesla's shoulders squared, and he stepped forward with deliberate purpose. Before her booted foot could touch the polished floor, Tesla's gloved hand extended, accepting hers as he offered a crisp bow that folded him at forty-five degree angle. Will almost coughed when he saw Magnus return it with a small dip of a curtsey.

"Good evening, Doctor Magnus," Tesla greeted. "You are as radiant as ever."

"And you are just as handsome as I remember, Doctor Tesla," Magnus replied. Tesla kept a gentle hold on her hand as she descended the last stair, and together they moved to join the younger half of their party.

Silence hung in the air for a long moment, before Magnus' lips curled into a lop-sided smile. "You can close your mouth, Mister Zimmerman. Needn't look so shocked."

Will obeyed. But a moment later it was open again, this time to speak. "Wow, Magnus—"

"That's either Miss or Doctor Magnus to you, scooter," Tesla reminded him. The smirk in his grin clearly conveyed his amusement. "Surely you remember how to properly address a lady."

Will fought the urge to roll his eyes. He hoped to god the man wasn't going to be so insufferable the entire night. "Of course, my apologies." He bowed, faltering only slightly in his uncertainty. Magnus dipped in response.

"Shall we get started then?" she asked, her voice smooth and even. Will heard the renewed strength in her accent, but didn't comment on it. He didn't know if it was conscious effort on her part, or a subconscious reaction to the dress and the coming event.

Either way, Will could only be grateful that they had opted for a limo instead of a horse and carriage. There'd been the option to have the event coordinators send a hansom to collect guests, but as a collective they seemed to agree that a limo would suffice for their first time.

Nikola helped Magnus into the vehicle, careful to ensure her skirts didn't drag along the pavement or get caught in the door. Will observed, then mimicked the actions for Abby. Only when both ladies were comfortably ensconced in the limo's interior did Tesla climb in. As the youngest, Will was left to slide in last, closing the door behind him as he did so.

"Now, remember, when we arrive it may be some time before we actually make it inside," Magnus warned. "There is often a receiving line, and it is expected that we greet each host and hostess before we make ourselves comfortable."

Magnus deftly continued, filling the silence with what they could expect. She'd already imparted the same information and more in the past weeks, but Will couldn't help but notice that it put Abby at ease. He'd almost been able to hear her going over the plan of action in her head, as though quizzing herself. She was nervous, but her excitement and Magnus' insight seemed to keep the worst of her anxiety at bay.

The limo slowed to a stop at the curb of the mansion hosting the event for the night. Already, the path leading up to the door was crowded with guests, all dressed with varying degree of era-accurate costumes. Will watched Magnus tilt her head, her sharp gaze surveying the social landscape milling about outside. He saw nothing but hoops and top hats, but the unreadable expression in her gaze gave him pause.

When Tesla gently touched her elbow, the look she with which she regarded him was full of something indescribable. Will wondered if, for a split second, she was not looking out over a mob of costumers, but instead witnessing events more than a century gone.

A moment later she blinked, and the look vanished.

She nodded to Tesla, as though answering a silent question before turning to Abby and Will.

"Shall we?"


	3. Chapter 3

_ Helen stepped from the carriage, mindful to keep her steps light on the cobblestone beneath her feet. The quiet London street was not so quiet this night, for the festivities within the warmly lit townhouse was well under way. _

_ Voices and music drifted on the crisp autumn air; this would mark the first of the year-end parties. Soon, the mulled cider would shift to warm eggnog and the richly colored leaves to garlands of pine, but for now London was alive and eager with new school terms and returning scholars. It was a time for seeing old friends and meeting new ones. _

_ Helen knew she was neither. She lingered somewhere on the line betwixt the two, invited to this particular event by Constance Davenport. Constance was an acquaintance from boarding school days long past, and it was no secret to her that she would be the source of many a whisper before dawn. _

_ Constance had never been one for slow lips, and no doubt news of her admission to Oxford was now well known to most in attendance. It would be a lonely night, the rumors succeeding in keeping all but the most daring at a distance. But despite all, Helen had refused to decline the invitation. _

_ She would not become her father, sequestered from society as he was. He was content to let them talk, but it was time for the Magnus name to see the light of day once more. She held no illusion that it would be a pleasant process, but she did not balk at the idea of making waves. After all, she was now an Oxford scholar and proud to be so, regardless of the gossip tarnishing her name. _

_ As she made her way up the shallow steps to the open door above, Helen smiled inwardly, her face a mask of detached pleasantry. While her dress this evening was the epitome of tasteful, as well as appropriately fashionable, her choice of wardrobe for her first day as an Oxford student had been another matter. A ruby frock her father had discouraged, it had clearly shaken those old boys in their boots. No doubt that particular bit of news was making the rounds tonight as well. _

_ Constance greeted her at the door, once Helen had shed her overcoat, and the affair was as hollow as Helen imagined it would be. She did not overlook the sly glance Constance spared her husband, a sure sign the rumors had preceded her arrival. Helen said nothing, however, and smoothly entered the lavish home with her head high. _

_ Making the customary rounds of greetings was both tense and uncomfortable. Everyone she spoke to was pleasant enough, but she was observant enough to see past the features as schooled as her own. Several of the ladies she greeted there were also from her old boarding school. Their reacquaintance was as stiff Constance's greeting had been, shrouded in thinly veiled amusement at her expense. Two were with child. _

_ As soon as she'd spoken with enough guests to be polite, Helen withdrew to an adjoining chamber, out of sight from the bodies that were just now beginning to clear the floor to make way for the evening's dancing. Here, guests had moved past the introductions and were immersed in various topics of discussion. She took a breath, letting the insulating murmur of soft, passionate voices wash over her. It reminded her of her father's own dinners, where he and his guests would debate the latest topics in the realm of academia. Here, she could almost pretend she couldn't feel the eyes following her every movement. _

* * *

Dark eyes watched from a shadowy alcove, sharp ears listening to the words whispered behind gloved hands.

"It's astounding," a woman to the right murmured to her friend. "Her carriage is absolutely impeccable!"

It didn't take a psychic or a genius for one to realize that the woman was talking about Helen. Since the moment they'd entered, she and her escort had had eyes follow them as they moved about the room. It was not that they were dressed ostentatiously, or did anything to draw attention to themselves. It was merely that as the night progressed, word had begun to spread.

The unseen figure observed the spectators as they in turn watched the couple, and he overheard more than he needed. He had his own eyes. It was not any single thing that made them stand out, the twittering hags commented.

It was that they moved about frequently, socializing and interacting as though they'd been doing it for years. They met a new couple or group, spoke for several minutes, and then moved on. It was that Nikola took it upon himself to politely interact with the ladies who had come unescorted, after excusing himself from his present company and leaving Helen in the conversation of her choosing.

It was that Helen was neither raucous nor silent, but the combination of enticing pleasantry and demure reticence. It was that her partner was the perfect gentleman, and as they made the rounds together, they drew attention as clearly being veterans of the circuit without being recognized by a single individual.

The figure watched as the couple Helen was speaking with offered their goodbyes and moved on, no doubt seeking a place for the woman to sit and relieve the pain in the feet housed in shoes two sizes too small. Helen lingered, sipping a glass of punch.

"And she waits for her escort," the woman continued, voice light with shocked approval. What utter nonsense. These party-goers were merely players on a stage, as wooden as the cast of that dreadful rendition of Twelfth Night that would forever stand out in his memory. The night he had swept his growing darkness aside, and promised to make this woman his wife.

It was a promise he had broken, but tonight, this one night, perhaps they could pretend as these people did, that those intervening years had not happened. That they were, in fact, reliving a night a century in the past.

That Helen and he were still who they were the night they had first met.

* * *

_ She was breathtaking. _

_ A simple glance would not have struck anyone as special. But her eyes. They were bright, meeting the gaze of any who glanced her way. There was a sharp intellect there, keen and observant, as though she saw everything. Fearless. _

_ John nudged his fellow, not taking his eyes from the woman standing alone in the crowded room. James turned to him, clearly irritated at the interruption from his conversation with a fellow scholar. _

_ "Who is she?" John asked. This was James' crowd after all, an event John had been swindled into following a bad bet with his friend. _

_ "Ah!" James' displeasure vanished in an instant, an animated gleam springing to his eye as he recognized the lady. "Miss Magnus!" _

_ The golden-haired woman turned at the call, and John felt his heart stutter in his chest when her eyes—so blue they rivaled the sky—turned on them. Gentle lips turned upwards in a smile, her features warming with recognition of James. In a brief moment of irrationality, John resented his friend's prior acquaintance. _

_ "Mister Watson," she greeted when they were within distance. "I hadn't realized you would be in attendance this evening." _

_ "Indeed, neither had I; but for the lonely pining of the gentleman to my right, I would have ignored my summons entirely." James twisted the truth, but John did not begrudge him the falsehood. It was a chance to be introduced. And his friend no doubt had plan of some sort hatching in his thoughts; the man was far too clever for his own good. _

_ The name of Magnus felt familiar. Perhaps James had mentioned her before—yes, she was the female who had set the campus aflame with a scarlet dress the first day of term. If John recalled correctly, James had been less than impressed with the inclusion of the fairer sex. Hearing him now, however, it seemed he must have changed his mind. _

_ "And your companion this evening?" The question was musical, soft and lilting against the undercurrent of voices around them. John straightened when her eyes turned on him, and felt the heat of her gaze for the first time. In a single glance it felt as though she had seen through to his very soul. _

_ Electricity arced from the top of his head to the tips of his very toes. She was breathtaking. _

_ "This is a dear friend of mine," James returned, angling slightly to bring John further in. "Miss Magnus, may I introduce Mister Druitt." John bowed, and Miss Magnus dipped into a curtsy. "Mister Druitt, Miss Magnus." _


	4. Chapter 4

Nikola felt the change in the air in an instant. He turned in time to see a tall shape emerge from the shadows in the corner, and Nikola's inhuman senses detected the ether of ozone that assured him the alcove had been empty mere moments before.

Nikola's throat constricted with rage and alarm as Helen turned and froze, her gaze locking on the figure who had eyes only for her. Druitt closed the distance between them in strides, and Nikola moved on instinct, only to be halted by a hand on his arm.

"Wait," Zimmerman urged, his voice low.

"Get out of my way—"

But the boy refused to move. "Give it a minute, huh? Let's just… see what happens." A firm glance met Nikola's. "She can take care of herself."

Nikola bit back a snarl. What would this, this  _ child _ know of Helen's capabilities, let alone those of a Helen in the thrall of John Druitt? It was laughable, and yet, a part of him recognized that Helen had chosen this protégée precisely for his unique insight. It was something she valued, so maybe, just maybe, he might be onto something.

He remained where he was, but kept his eyes glued to the tableau unfolding before him.

* * *

"What are you doing here, John?"

Helen's voice shook, and she tried to tell herself it was a result of the damned corset. His attire was not as the other patrons', not anywhere near the style of the era, but the dark lines of his overcoat accentuated his lean frame, adding to his height. If it weren't for the scar creasing his cheek, she could almost believe he was the same John she'd first met that warm September night, so long ago.

Almost.

His lips parted, the deep longing in his eyes stealing her breath away. "You look…" His voice trailed away as he seemed to search for an adequate word. The faintest echo of a smile haunted his lips as he drank in the sight of her. A flush Helen hadn't felt for years stole up her spine, heating the sides of her neck. "Divine," he finished.

His evasion of her question did not slip Helen's notice, but the flutter in her chest was far more concerning. Dear Lord… The room swam as John reached for her hand, bowing marginally at the waist. "I believe they're playing our song," he observed softly.

Helen blinked, hearing for the first time the strains of an all too familiar tune.  _ Beethoven. _ Her throat burned, suddenly tight, too tight to speak as he reached for her, and her hand unwilling lifted to rest in his. Her ears roared as she was sucked into her past, a past she had spent the last hundred years trying to leave behind.

* * *

_ "You dance splendidly!" _

_ The words were no doubt meant kindly, but Helen drew herself up to her full height, bristling at the unintended implication. "Does that surprise you?" _

_ Carefully elocuted, the question still carried a sharp edge of anger, and he was no fool. His brow lifted. "Indeed not, Madam. I am simply delighted." That charming smile returned, and her ire melted at the sight of it. "Might I entreaty you for a second turn later this evening?" _

_ Helen swallowed her surprise. Her dance card was far from crowded, given her spreading reputation as a masculine spinster, but his eyes were without guile. They were simply earnest, hopeful and bright. Not once had his gaze left hers, and though she sensed that he was gathering information about her, she doubted it was to conspire with his peers at the gentleman's club later on. He was observant, but honestly so. _

_ She felt the scientist within her reach out to him, and only the tight rein she kept on her heart kept her from falling completely. _

_ "As I understand from James' tales, you are quite the intellectual," he commented. He turned them expertly to evade the less careful couple who misstepped towards them. He never looked away from her. _

_ Incredible special awareness. Fascinating. _

_ "What is your poison of choice, if I may inquire?" _

_ Helen returned her thoughts to the conversation at hand. "The sciences," she delivered, resigning herself to her fate. This was where those brave souls who had weathered her thus far had their fill. If anything, ladies should be interested in Literature, or Poetry. Certainly not Medicine or Anatomy. "Physiology, primarily." _

_But instead of the disdain she expected, his eyes alit with interest. "Truly?"_ _Helen dipped her chin in a nod. "How fortuitous!"_

_ "In what way?" She was apprehensive, shocked even, despite herself. This Mister Druitt continued to surprise her, with first his initial interest in her, and then in his continued company, when others would have long moved on to fresher, younger pastures. Helen found she didn't know what to do with herself; all she knew was that they were slowly spinning away from the rules of convention. Together. _

_ But beneath Helen's uncertainty sparked a rush of interest, a thirst to know more. This man, so charming and engaging, was a mystery to her, a puzzle. And he intrigued her unlike any other puzzle she had yet to face. _

_ "I'm afraid my own handle on the sciences is untenable," Mister Druitt responded. "I have been in dire need of a tutor for some weeks now." _

_ "Mister Druitt, I'm afraid I'm not—" _

_ "James has mentioned frequently that you have already surpassed your peers in marks and theory both. I'm afraid that if I am to be of any use to the college at all, the poor soul tasked with aiding me must be the very best. It is my only hope at all." _

_ His final words came clearer than the rest, and it was only then Helen realized that they had slowed to a stop, the dance ended. The room gently applauded the musicians, as the dancers bowed to their partners. Mister Druitt took her hand and cordially escorted her to where James stood in fervent discussion. His lips brushed her fingers as he bade her goodbye. _

_ "Do consider my plight, Miss Magnus" he urged. "A chap in the quartet has informed me that they shall perform an arrangement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 before the night is out. If you would do me the honor of a second dance, perhaps you might then inform me of your decision?" _

_ Helen regarded him for a long moment. She had no reason to mistrust this man, this Mister Druitt. Something within her fluttered at the thought of seeing him again. It was against convention to dance twice with the same man, but her dance card was far from crowded. _

_ "Very well," she agreed softly, a flush heating her cheeks. "I'd be delighted." _

_ "Thank you, milady," he returned. A gleam of anticipation sparked in his gaze, but rather than feeling unsettled, Helen felt her stomach flip under his flattery. "I look forward to it, Miss Magnus." _

_ He stepped away, his lips still curled in a smile. Helen watched him go, her cheeks flushing. It was then James turned to her, ignorant of the exchange that had transpired. "You're flushed, Miss Magnus. Are you well?" _

_ She blinked, looking to her friend as if waking from a dream. "Oh, yes, of course," she fluttered. "Merely the dance. I am unused to such festivities." _

_ "Then I shall endeavor to pull you away from your studies more often," James met with a grin. His eyes twinkled merrily. "You are far too dedicated to your scholarly pursuits…" _

_ Helen smiled, knowing that if she was too dedicated, then so was he. James Watson was as driven to learn as she was, if not more so, a kindred spirit among a college of strangers looking down their noses at her. _

_ "Allow me to fetch you a drink," he offered cordially, turning crisply to offer his elbow. She grasped it lightly, allowing him to lead her to the refreshments. He ladled her a glass of the sweetened punch, and she sipped it as he regaled her with his recent discussion of Mister Darwin's newest theory of evolution. _

_ Helen was well-versed on the subject, thanks to her father, and she allowed herself to be drawn in, offering her own thoughts on the merits of the theory. But even as she let his voice drown out the murmurs of other disapproving guests, she found herself listening for the chords of a promised waltz. _


	5. Chapter 5

Will watched Druitt fluidly pull Magnus into a dance. He could tell she was surprised to see him. Stunned, even. Her movements were stiff, but airy, as if she were sleepwalking. They fell easily into step with the others, as if they'd been dancing together all their lives.

The other pairs on the dance floor glanced at them, surprised at the ease of their skill. But the two didn't notice. For them, the rest of the room didn't seem to exist. Druitt had eyes only for Magnus, and she'd been drawn in completely, like a moth to flame.

Will wondered what it was that still hooked her. What was it about that man that could disable her defenses so completely? Was it the memory of whom he'd once been? The bond they'd once shared? He was the father of her now-deceased daughter. Perhaps that was it. Some trace of Ashley still existed in Druitt. His eyes. The high brow, maybe.

"It's simple, really."

Tesla's voice was dark, with a touch of trademark wry snark that made Will blink in surprise.

"The dance?"

Tesla snorted in derision. "Yes, the  _ dance _ . The eternal dance that will hold them in thrall for as long as they both shall live." Jesus. The melodrama. Will fought the urge to roll his eyes, waiting for the man to get to the point. Which he did. Eventually. "I see you trying to wrap your human little brain around it, and it's simple, really."

"How do you mean?" Nothing about Magnus was simple, and he doubted any single one of the Five could be anything less than extremely complicated. Simple wasn't in their vocabulary.

Nikola turned his gaze to the graceful couple, his gaze almost wistful. "They're magnetic."

Will's brow rose. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on, Scooter" he came with a grin. "I know you're of slower mind than some of us real scientists, but it doesn't take a genius to see that those two are irrevocably drawn to each other." His sharp gaze returned to his friends. "Equal measures attraction and repulsion, forever dancing around each other until that one, singular moment in time that they are nearly one."

Will considered it, then nodded. But it didn't explain the why though.

"You know…" Nikola continued, a false ease staining his voice. To the unpracticed ear, he sounded blasé about the whole thing, but Will detected the bitter tension in his voice. "Longevity is not her true gift."

"What?"

"Her true gift is god-given, not engineered as ours were." A pale hand wafted through the air, gesturing vaguely towards the woman being swept around the dance floor. "That force she wields over all, so effortlessly... She head it before we'd even heard of the Source Blood. We were all drawn to her, all of us, pulled to her by her sheer force of spirit. John was victim to it on a grand scale."

* * *

_ Nikola bit back a snarl. Druitt was a sap, no qualms about it. He had a keen mind—nowhere near his own intellect, but Nikola could respect the passion for learning the man had. However, there was no escaping the fact the barrister was a sod. All poetry and flowers and nonsense for a woman. _

_ It was nauseating. _

_ "I believe we could use a few minds in our studies," Watson was saying, his Englishman's tenor warm and amused. _

_ "You think we ought to bring this lass into our study group?" Nigel Griffin was not nearly as well-suited to this party's grandeur, his jagged vernacular of the Queen's English clashing with the posh atmosphere. Nikola liked the man, if only for his refusal to conform to society's whims. _

_ James' voice took an odd turn. "I daresay we should join hers." _

_ "Nonsense." Nikola could no longer keep quiet. A woman, study with them? "Don't tell me this woman has gotten her claws into you as well, Watson. She's made a proper fillet out of Druitt as it is." _

_ Nikola remembered Druitt's simpering grin the last time he'd read the lady's note, the distraction he was driven to as he debated the topic of which flowers to bring her this evening when he called on her. Nikola had been a moment away from banishing the man from his laboratory when Druitt had acquitted himself of his own volition, too anticipated to be bothered with things like study. _

_ But Watson was unfazed by the accusation. "On the contrary, Mister Tesla. I have seen her mind at work, and I daresay her intellect is as sharp as any." _

_ A snort rose in Nikola's throat, but was silenced by Griffin's delighted exclamation. "There the bloke is now," he chirped, clearly eager to see what all the fuss was about. Nikola harrumphed behind his mustache, and turned to greet Druitt as he approached. _

_ "Miss Magnus," the tall man announced, "may I present Mr. Nikola Tesla and Mr. Nigel Griffin." _

_ Nikola paused, taking in the woman on Druitt's arm. She was beautiful, yes, but well past the preferred age of courtship. He perused her in a glance, and was startled to find that sharp blue eyes were similarly appraising him. Her head bowed as she dipped into a curtsy while he bowed, but as she rose her eyes met his. There was something there, behind those eyes. Her lips turned upwards ever so slightly, as though her thoughts held a secret to which only she were privy. _

_ "A pleasure to finally meet you," Miss Magnus delivered smoothly. "Mister Watson has spoken highly of both of you." _

_ Nikola straightened, warming under the praise. Griffin, of course, saw the motion and shot him a glance of amusement. "I understand you are a student of the college as well?" _

_ "I am," she affirmed, unashamed. _

_ "She earned top marks on the quarter finals last week," Druitt declared, as proud as a peacock. Distaste again dampened Nikola's lifting spirits. The man could at least attempt to be subtle. There was something to be said for a bit of mystery, was there not? _

_ Miss Magnus flushed, at least having the decency to appear flustered under the unabashed enthusiasm of her escort. Watson offered his congratulations, and Griffin added his own sentiments, but Nikola remained silent. He continued to observe the lady, saw the easy way with which she interacted with his fellow gentlemen. _

_ There was not an ounce of hesitation in her posture, not the slightest indication that she acknowledged that no woman should be able to hold an intellectual discussion with scholars. This woman, this Miss Helen Magnus, was an oddity of nature. _

_ Blue eyes returned to his every so often, as though registering his gaze without deigning to comment on it. Her mysterious smile lingered, enticing Nikola's curiosity. _

_ Later, perhaps in a few days, he would have to inform James that he had changed his mind. He would join this woman's merry band of studious scholars, if only to learn what secrets lurked behind those infuriatingly entrancing eyes. _

_ All in the name of scientific curiosity, of course. _

* * *

Will understood what Tesla meant. He'd felt it as well. Didn't everyone? In the middle of the pouring rain, on one of the darkest nights of his life to date, he'd been approached by a stranger who'd made the most bizarre, cryptic job offer ever.

And he'd accepted.

Because he'd been curious, yes. Because he had nothing better to do, sure. But more so because the woman he'd come to know as Helen Magnus had been so mysteriously alluring that he couldn't  _ not _ say yes.

Now, he couldn't imagine working for anyone other than Magnus. In the years since that fateful night, he'd come to recognize her astounding leadership skills, razor sharp intellect, and general ability to kick butt. He wouldn't find that anywhere else, and he knew it.

But underneath all of that, there was that invisible pull that bound Will to Magnus as completely as any shackle. He saw the same tethers around Henry, around Tesla, Biggie, even Kate, for all her loud independence. And most especially Will saw it in Druitt, because while he could puzzle and puzzle what drew Magnus to the man, the fact remained that Druitt kept coming back for her.

Through the darkness of the Ripper, past the influence of the entity they now knew resided in him, John Druitt could not stay away.


	6. Chapter 6

They were turning, walking on air in a ghost of a dream. Revulsion whispered at John, railing in disgust against the hand on his shoulder, the palm in his. But it remained a whisper as he stared into Helen's eyes, as bright as they were a century ago.

She had yet to speak, silently following his lead as he spun them around the dance floor. Her steps were light, nothing but grace in his arms. She appeared to be as dazed as he felt, no doubt also treading the line between past and present.

John felt the hard stare of Tesla and Helen's pet protégée. Reflexively, he yearned for privacy, for a quiet in which he could speak to her as he once did, when he was but himself, and no other. Before the rage had overcome him, his thirst for blood and violence destroying the best thing that had ever happened to him. He'd had forever in his grasp, and he'd let it slip through his fingers.

The quartet began the closing measures of the waltz, and Druitt knew he had to act quickly. He glided them close to the doors leading to the veranda, and as the song hit its final note, he took them one last step, stopping in the pale light of the moon.

A cool breeze rustled the fabric of her dress, and the chill seemed to wake Helen from her stupor. Her laced hand pulled suddenly from his, her boots scuffing against the stone veranda as she put distance between them.

"You've been following us." Helen's voice shuddered under the weight of the accusation. "That's how you knew we would be here."

"I've been following  _ you _ , Helen." He didn't give a thought to the rest. They were insignificant. She was the only one among them who mattered. Her eyes sparkled in the lamplight, beckoning him forward. He took one step, then a second, and smiled when she did not pull away. He reached for her, his fingertips brushing her glove-sheathed arm before her shoulder twitched, drawing her limb from his grasp. But she didn't move away.

Her bosom lifted with an intake of breath, a pink tongue darting out to moisten dry lips. "Why?" Helen's voice washed over him like salve, soothing the chaos rising within him. The entity within him was struggling to assert itself. "Why are you here?"

John let his gaze drink her in, memorizing the sight of her. Every curl, every fold of satin, committing it to his very soul. "Oh, how I've missed you," he murmured. "Helen…"

"Don't." The edge injected into her voice broke the illusion. John blinked, and Helen was standing before him. Not the woman he'd met so many years ago, but the woman who had tried to kill him in a dark alley.

Hate burned within him, though the weakening voice that truly was John remembered the whore he'd held in his hands that night, the woman Helen had tried to save from his murderous rage. Helen held lives in her hands every day, a dark voice spat, and she lost hold of so many. Like that of their daughter—she'd gotten Ashley killed, murdered her with the refusal to capitulate to the Cabal's demands.

Who was she to judge!

"I can't keep doing this, John. This neverending circle… I can't." Her voice was so soft, yet cut more deeply than any blade.

He stepped closer, and this time, she drew back. In revulsion, in fear—John couldn't discern the look in her eye. "You cannot deny that there is still an attraction between us."

"No," she confessed, nearly choking on the word. "I can't. But this,  _ us _ , John… I can't..."

John surged forward, pressing her back against the marble balustrade. She gasped, startled, and he reveled in the sound of it. The fury in him mounted, encouraged by the power she gave him in that tiny little breath of sound.

"Which feeling do you mean, Helen?" he purred, his hand palming the lines of her bodice. He felt the rigid lines accentuated her figure, the hard-boned corset hidden beneath smooth satin. Fire surged through his veins, and the creature within him gained strength. "Do you mean the passion betwixt your legs?" He could smell the arousal on her, leaking from her pores like a bitch in heat. "Or do you mean the insatiable urge to destroy all that is good in your life?"

His palm covered the racing pulse pounding away in her neck, his thumb resting against front of her throat. A little pressure, and her trachea would collapse like a windless sail. John looked into her eyes, and saw the alarm that came with realizing the she was no longer speaking to the John who had swept her away.

The skirt of her gown rasped against the balustrade as she darted away from him, the motion arrested with a sharp cry as he tightened his grip, slamming her back. She twisted his hand from where it was clamped against her side, the bones in his wrist creaking against the abuse before he flickered in place, evading her hold.

In a flash, his hand was freed and curled delicately around his blade, pulled from the folds of his overcoat with keen familiarity. John grinned, basking in the tight set of her jaw, the gleam of fear in her gaze. One hand curved around the back of her neck, keeping that delicate throat of hers in place as he brought the razor's edge up to press lightly against her lips.

Helen yanked her head back, only to run into the unyielding hand against the back of her neck. A sharp gasp was wrenched from her lips, the breath of it fogging the flat of the blade.

"John, please—"

"Shut up," he snarled, leaning in closer. "You filthy little whore! Your pleading won't save you; not even your Serbian lap dog can save you now."

The blade trailed down the flat of her soft, smooth jaw, before lingering at the pulse point throbbing desperately from her carotid. The entity beckoned him further, persuading the knife to draw a scarlet line across her skin.

"Augh!" The cry was strangled, her body squirming against him. Adrenaline sang in his veins, flashes of Whitechapel dancing across his vision. The whores he'd cut open had been poor substitutes to Helen, and now he had the real thing within his grasp.

"It is said,  _ Helen _ ," he mocked, taunting her, "that when you kill someone, their blood stays on your hands. You can relate to that, surely; your hands  _ drip _ with it." Tear-filled eyes locked on his, wide and fearful. John drank it in, savoring the scent of her growing terror. "Perhaps you can tell me how true that is. I for one haven't given those wanton sluts a second thought."

Helen's gaze hardened, her jaw tight. "But you, my dear—" John leaned in close. "When I slit your throat, I will keep you with me… for all eternity."

He drew back, his fingers adjusting their grip on the blade. Helen met his gaze, and for an interminable moment he searched her eyes, looking for…  _ something _ . The parasite lurking in his soul wanted her to beg, to plead for her unnatural life—simply to hear the horror, the panic. But John, the small, minuscule part of him that was still aware, yearned for the words that promised she still loved him.

What spilled from her lips was neither.

"Do it."

John blinked, pulling back in shock. The fury abated but for a moment in surprise. "What did you say?"

"I said do it," Helen repeated, the fire in her voice searing through the fear that had so permeated her being mere moments ago. "Kill me. Rid yourself of me, once and for all. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

_ No, _ he wanted to say.  _ Never. I love you, Helen _ . But his jaw locked against his will.

"I'm sure your passenger would be glad to be rid of the one thing that reminds you of the man you once were."

The parasite within him railed at the revelation, confirming its truth even as the rage swelled to deny it. He tightened his grip on her neck, threatening to strangle her where she stood, but Helen didn't seem to feel it. She met his gaze fearlessly.

"So do it. Slit my throat. Bleed me dry." John recoiled inside his mind. He would never—but he could. Not a hundred years ago, but he would now, with his soul stolen and the entity stronger than ever. "But it won't change anything."

"Oh, but it will—"

"It won't. I'm a part of you, John. Just as you are a part of me. You'll be no more rid of me than I could ever be rid of you. It's the reason you keep coming back, the reason I can't keep you away. We are bound, John. Irrevocably so."

That was the truth of it. John loved her, with all his heart—and the creature hated her in equal measure. Despised her for the love John refused to relinquish, for the beacon she continued to be. Helen brought John back to himself, was the only thing in the world who still could. He needed her like he needed oxygen; he could not live without her.

"Helen!"

Helen's eyes flickered over John's shoulder at the cry, meeting Tesla's gaze with a startled stare. John heard the grinding snarl of Tesla's shift to his vampiric self, and knew he only had moments. Defiant blue eyes— _ fearless _ —met his once more, and he leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear.

"I love you, Helen…" he murmured. He drew back, met her gaze for a split second before he ducked his chin, and kissed his lips to hers for a tantalizing moment. "For all eternity."

His palm moved from her neck to her cheek, giving one last, gentle caress before he let the ether take him.

John didn't know where he was going, but he knew he would do his damnedest to make sure he stayed away from her. This time for good.


	7. Chapter 7

Will doggedly followed Tesla when the man surged suddenly towards the veranda, leaving Abby standing shocked at the refreshment table as he responded to the vampire's obvious alarm. They stumbled together through the open patio doors, and Will's heart leapt to his throat at the sight of Magnus pressed tightly between Druitt and balcony rail.

Something glinted in Druitt's hand, and Will's lightning quick senses saw it for what it was—a weapon, a blade poised to murder Magnus.

"Helen!" Tesla's shout startled both Magnus and Will, though Druitt didn't even seem to blink. He remained focused on the woman he had trapped in his arms, whose panicked gaze arrested Will where he stood. He'd never seen her so frightened before.

Tesla reacted instantly, his hands arching as claws sprouted from his fingertips, a growl scraping from his throat. His eyes darkened in the split second it took to launch himself forward. In a blur of motion, Will moved to follow, but with a crack of sound Druitt disappeared into thin air.

Magnus fell forward as soon as Druitt's weight disappeared, with Tesla's charge sliding to a halt just in time to catch her as she stumbled. Will surged up behind them, pulse racing.

"Magnus! Oh my god—" His flustered exclamation was ignored when Tesla pulled her attention to him.

"Are you injured?" he asked, voice low and gentle. His hand held Magnus', but she pulled it from his grasp as she shakily tried to gather herself.

Her eyes blinked rapidly. "I'm fine…"

"You're bleeding," Will pointed out, his eyes zeroing in on the sluggish line of blood trailing from the slice carved into the skin of her throat.  _ Jesus _ … Another ounce of pressure, and he would've actually done it. Druitt would have killed her.

Magnus brushed his concern away. "I'm fine, please, just…" She tried to push away entirely, but when Tesla kept a gentle hold on her, she stopped, almost sagging against him. Suddenly, she wasn't the picture-perfect doll of Victorian fashion, but an exhausted woman who had lived too many years.

Tesla turned his head towards Will, but his eyes didn't leave Magnus. "Get the car, we're leaving," he instructed firmly. He turned back to Magnus, his fingers gently brushing her cheek. "We're leaving."

* * *

_ The carriage ride home was silent. Well, relatively so, at least. Bessie reported all the gossip she'd overheard throughout the evening, little nuggets of information mined from her fellow maids and chaperones. Helen barely heard her. _

_ Her fingers tingled with the remembered touch of Mr. Druitt's hand. He'd been so gentle. As though she were a goddess, and he so honored to be her acolyte. And the interest he'd shown in her studies, inquiring without testing her—a feat even James Watson had yet to master. Watson constantly challenged her, in the spirit of scholarly camaraderie. _

_ But Mister Druitt… John… He guided her, helped her along in ways she didn't even realize she needed. And he had his own insights, which only made him more intriguing. He had a way of looking at things, took the oddity's in such stride… and he was passionate, if perhaps not as vocally as Watson or Tesla. _

_ Helen descended from the hansom when it pulled up in front of her father's town home, and made her way inside and up the stairs in a daze. Bessie followed, falling silent as though recognizing the stupor her ward was in. _

_ When her hair was undone, her nightshift settled across her shoulders, Helen mutely registered Bessie's departure from her room. She sank onto the plushly cushioned bench situated at the foot of her bed, her hands pressed to her chest as if they could slow her racing heart, or ease the flutter in her stomach. _

_ She'd never felt like this before; never felt anything like it. Helen tipped her head back, leaning against the bedpost with a wistful sigh. It had only been a few months, but she already knew. In her heart of hearts, she knew. _

_ If John asked it, she would spend the rest of her life with him. _

* * *

It took all of Helen's considerable fortitude to get home without crumbling.

She'd gotten away with a simple adhesive bandage on her neck, though the scratch had already stopped bleeding by the time they'd arrived home. Both Nikola and Will offered their services in helping her undress, neither offers laden with anything other than concern. But she'd asked Kate instead, who knew something was wrong and had the courtesy to not ask Helen anything. Kate helped lift the heavy gown over her head, loosened her corset—Helen nearly coughed at the sudden release.

She was down to her shift when Kate finally spoke. "Y'know, Doc…"

Helen looked up at her, failing to find the words with which to respond. Kate shifted her stance, clearly uncomfortable. "You know where to find me, if you need anything… right?"

Forcing a smile, Helen nodded. "Of course." She swallowed. "Thank you, Kate."

"I'm just gonna, ah…" The younger woman motioned towards the door, and Helen nodded again, giving her permission. She was fine. She'd be all right.

She always was.

A moment later, Helen was alone. Sitting in front of her boudoir mirror, she began the task of letting her hair down. Pin after pin was worked from her tresses, fingers nimbly seeking out the fixtures before brushing her hair. The usually comforting routine put her ill at ease, however.

Her reflection stared at her, a spectre of her past. Helen looked at the glass and saw the same haunted look as she had that night she'd approached John in the alley, seen the monster he'd become. The monster she'd created.

She set her brush down with a snap, turning from the accusing mirror as she rose, leaving the dressing table to move towards her bed. She was tired, so very exhausted. Halfway there, she stumbled, tears blinding her as a suffocating sob rose in her throat. Helen caught herself against the bedpost, fingers gripping it desperately as her knees shook, threatening to collapse where she stood.

A trembling hand lifted to her throat, fingering the bandage resting there. A groan pulled from her throat, and she shut her eyes against the memory of the steel brushing her skin, the blade so vilely familiar it sickened her. It had been dark on the veranda, but she would recognize that blade anywhere. It was the same razor he had threatened her with in London, the same blade that had been left lodged in the plaster wall of her study.

Tears poured down her cheeks as sobs overwhelmed her, pouring from her in loud, gasping heaves of sound. Her heart thundered in her ears, mocking her. She collapsed to her knees as her fingers clenched around the bedpost, clinging to the wood as though her life depended on it. It was her anchor; it kept her here, in this room, in this time.

She gave in to the waves of grief, sorrow borne over the course of a century. Heartbreak over not only John, but for herself, for the woman who died the same night she lost John.  _ Never again. _ This was her solemn vow, invoked as she released her anguish into the night.

Never again would she lose herself to another's heart, so long as she may live.


End file.
